by Stewart Ross
Leiss raised a hand. “Quiet please. I hear what you say, Taja, and this is what we will do. We’ll hear Roxanne’s story from her own mouth. When she has finished, we will take a handshow. If, after listening to her, nine or more of us decide she can be trusted, we will accept her into our community. If not, we will execute her. Agreed?”
There was a murmur of assent.
At Leiss’ command, Cyrus and Navid went outside and returned with Roxanne. With a grace that was almost noble, she nodded respectfully to the Emir before taking her place across the table from him. Taja confirmed the prisoner’s identity, drawing the company’s attention to the livid Z-shaped tattoo on her forehead.
Leiss nodded. “Thank you, Taja. Right, Roxanne – or whoever you are – what have you to say?”
While she gathered her thoughts, the prisoner looked steadily around the room. That morning she had been running for her life. Now, barely into the afternoon, she was being asked to argue for her life. It would not be easy. She was among strange people. Constants, yes, but from a community that had developed differently from hers, people with their own customs and ways of thinking. Comparing their plain rough clothing with her own tattered yet still brightly coloured tunic, she noted that the Tallins were technically less advanced than those among whom she had grown up.
Although she did not know it, Roxanne faced another, far more serious difficulty. The arrival of an outsider had electrified the people of Della Tallis, but it had also frightened them. Behind the fifteen pairs of eyes fixed upon her lingered a dark suspicion of betrayal.
“I come from a community of Constants like yours,” Roxanne began. “Its name is Yonne and it’s many, many miles from here.”
“What’s that?” interrupted Leiss. “What is ‘miles’?”
“My apologies, Emir. ‘Miles’ is a word from the time of the Long Dead. It means a certain distance.”
“How far?”
“Around one thousand paces, I think.”
Leiss looked confused. “You’ve run many thousands of paces from this Yonne place?”
What Roxanne did next convinced Cyrus that she was no Zed. She smiled. It was not a broad grin but a simple, slight movement of the lips that brightened her whole face and brought a sparkle to her tired green eyes. That one look spoke more eloquently to Cyrus, and several others in the room, than all the words that followed.
There was one particular thing about Yonne, Roxanne explained, that made it different from Della Tallis. Did they know of ‘paper’? Leiss nodded. Well, she went on, after the Great Death survivors burned nearly all paper for fuel. Somehow, almost miraculously, the Yonners’ ancestors had managed to preserve three books. These were now valuable relics, locked away and seen by only the élite of each generation.
“And I am one of those who have seen the books,” Roxanne said, adding slowly, “I can read and write.”
Once again muttering filled the room. The Tallins were illiterate. Nevertheless, despite never having seen one, they knew the word “book”. To them it was a source of wonder and truth, like an oracle, and books featured in some of their legends. They knew of writing, too, because they found it on ancient objects. But no one knew how to read. And now this brave and attractive outsider had turned up claiming to be able to decipher those mysterious markings!
“Prove it!” interrupted a tall, lean man with a hooked nose. He walked over to Roxanne, drew a knife from his belt and handed it to her. “The Long Dead made this knife,” he explained. “It has some of this writing on the blade. Look! What does it mean?”
Taking the knife, Roxanne wiped it on the sleeve of her tunic and looked at the shining metal. “It is very worn, but I can make out some words. It says, Stai…Stainless Steel. Made in…I don’t know this word, but I think it’s Taiwan. It then says two thousand and thirteen.”
These words from the olive-skinned stranger appeared to mesmerise the Majlis. Despite her hideous tattoo, torn clothing and scratched limbs, she was like a prophet from a higher civilisation. If the handshow had been taken at that moment, she would have been instantly accepted.
Taja brought them back down to earth. “Very clever,” she retorted. “Yet many things worry me about you, Roxanne. We still don’t know whether you’re telling the truth, do we? Anyone can make up words. Why, for example, would someone put the words ‘two thousand and thirteen’ on a knife? Did you just invent that number?”
Roxanne remained calm. “A good question, Taja,” she replied, turning to face her challenger. “I quite understand why you want to know. I think the number tells us when the knife was made. What we call ‘winters’ they called ‘years’. This knife was made in the year two thousand and thirteen. The Yonners have kept a record of the winters since the Great Death and, using the Long Dead way of counting, it is now the year two thousand, one hundred and six.”
“Two thousand, one hundred and six?” Leiss asked slowly. “What’s that mean? Is it the number of winters since the beginning of the world?”
Roxanne shook her head. “I’m sorry, Emir, but I don’t know.”
“Useless information, then!” cut in Taja.
“Maybe,” Roxanne shrugged. “But it might be helpful one day. If we were to find the Soterion.” She looked round to see whether her audience understood what she was talking about. Frowns and puzzled expressions gave her the answer.
Moving over to lean wearily against a table, Roxanne outlined the legend of the Soterion. A group of Long Dead, seeing their world falling apart, had decided to preserve its knowledge for future generations. They collected hundreds of books and papers which they stored deep underground, safe from the weather and Zed vandalism. They named this vault the “Soterion”. Yonners believed it was still there, waiting to be discovered.
“Whoever finds it,” Roxanne concluded, looking round the silent room, “will gain the knowledge of the Long Dead – making iron and medicine and a thousand other things. As long as they can read.”
“Like you,” said Taja. “Very convenient!”
Roxanne sighed. “Yes, like me. But there is something else. Yonner folklore also tells how the cleverest of the Long Dead had been working on what they called the Salvation Project, a cure for the Great Death. They died before the medicine was ready, but a record of their work was among the last pieces of information placed in the Soterion as it was being sealed.
“If we had those writings,” Roxanne continued, rising to her feet and speaking in a voice that trembled with excitement, “If we had those writings and the knowledge of the Long Dead, perhaps we could make that medicine. Then we would not die after our eighteenth winter as we do now, but grow old slowly, living for many, many years. Think what that would mean for our children, for our grandchildren. Yes, you would live long enough to see and hold your own grandchildren in your arms!”
When the Majlis had calmed down after this extraordinary speech, Leiss asked Roxanne what the Soterion story had to do with her.
“It’s why I’m here,” she explained, pushing back her hair so that her Zed scar was revealed in dreadful clarity. In the spring, Yonne had welcomed visitors from the Constant settlement of Alba. The Albans, who like the Tallins were illiterate, claimed to have found a sort of man-made cave set into the side of the mountain where they lived. Although unable to get inside, an image cut into the rusting steel door had interested them greatly: they thought it might be a book.
The door was engraved with words, too. Alban craft workers had copied the markings by carving them on pieces of wood, and these were presented to the Yonners. Imagine the delight of both groups of Constants when it was confirmed that the image was indeed that of a book and the words beneath it read “The Soterion”.
Six literate Yonners – Roxanne among them – volunteered to return to Alba to teach reading and, it was hoped, find a way into the fabled Soterion.
“You volunteered?” cut in Taja, her eyes narrowing.
“Yes. Why does it matter?”
“As we were bringing you here, I thought you said you had two children?”
Roxanne hesitated. “I do. It was not easy. But they are well cared for back in Yonne, and sometimes the community is more important than the individual.”
“Of course.” Taja’s voice was sharp, almost bitter. “Go on.”
“I had a chance to do something great, perhaps to change the lives of all Constants everywhere, for ever. It was my duty to go. Besides, my eighteenth winter has passed, so my children will lose me soon anyway.”
Roxanne turned and looked calmly at Taja. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
There was no reply. As everyone in the room except Roxanne knew, Taja was childless.
Roxanne resumed her story, saying how excited the whole Yonne community was when the Soterion Mission set out. It would only be a matter of time, they believed, before the great day would come, the day when the Soterion would yield up the knowledge of the Long Dead – and perhaps news of the Salvation Project, too.
It was not to be. The small band was ambushed by Zeds. As was their custom, the barbarians killed the men, reserving just one for their ghastly ritual. Two women were slain in the attack. The surviving two, Roxanne and an hysterical Alban woman, were raped and tortured. They were then tattooed with Zs and kept as slaves. Worse still, the leader of the tribe singled Roxanne out for special attention. She did not spell out exactly what he had done but confessed that, under torture, she had told him about the Soterion.
Roxanne paused, distressed by the memory of what she had been through. Eventually she added, “Fortunately, I managed to escape before telling him where it was.”
“How did you get away?” asked the youngest of the Mudirs, staring wide-eyed at his new hero. He couldn’t imagine the Zeds letting anyone out of their clutches.
“There are ways,” Roxanne replied coolly. “All men, even Zeds, have their weaknesses.”
When Taja greeted this remark with a snort of contempt, Roxanne gave her a curious look. It spoke more of compassion than anger, Cyrus noted. She certainly was a remarkable woman.
The rest of her story, Roxanne concluded, they already knew. With the Zeds closing in on her fast, she had stumbled upon the Della Tallis community quite by accident. Even then, she would have been ripped to pieces before reaching safety if Taja had not told the archers to shoot the dogs.
“There we are. That’s who I am and why I’m here,” concluded Roxanne, suddenly looking thoroughly exhausted. “I know it must sound strange, almost impossible. But it is true, I promise you. If you believe me, I beg you to give me an escort so that I may continue my mission to Alba.”
“Right,” said Leiss quickly. He did not want further discussion in Roxanne’s presence. “Cyrus and Navid, take the prisoner outside again while we decide what to do with her.”
Instinctively, Cyrus took hold of Roxanne’s arm. She turned towards him, half smiling. “Not necessary, Cyrus. I’m not going to try to escape, am I? I’m too tired and there’s nowhere for me to go.”
Cyrus withdrew his hand and followed Navid and Roxanne out of the room. What was it, he wondered, that made this woman so different? Unlike anyone he had met, she seemed to command affection and respect in equal measure from complete strangers.
As soon as the prisoner had left, Leiss invited the Mudirs to give their opinion. The hook-nosed man who had spoken earlier was the first to catch the Emir’s eye. “We’re born, we live, we die,” he growled. “That’s the way it is. Doesn’t seem right to me to try to find a way to live for forty, fifty or even a hundred winters.”
“The Long Dead did,” interrupted Obadis, a fair-haired man who had lost an eye in a shooting accident. “And they were cleverer than us, Rustam. They built this house for a start.”
“Maybe,” Rustam replied. “But that was them and we are us. Different. That Roxanne woman seemed alright to me, but I don’t want her trying to change things, that’s all.”
This annoyed Zuleyka, the excitable Mudir of the Central Tower. “You’re not thinking straight, Rustam,” she said, pumping her hands up and down in frustration. “If we lived another ten winters, we’d see our children grow to ten or twelve winters themselves – then think what we’d be able to pass on to them: all our ideas, all we have learned. They wouldn’t have to learn everything all over again.”
“And we’re Constants, aren’t we?” added her friend Vashti. “We’re loyal to the ways of the Long Dead. We want to be like them, not Zeds.”
After the discussion had ranged backwards and forwards for a while, Azat, the one Mudir who had not yet spoken suddenly thumped his fist on the table. “Listen!” he roared, glaring about him. “As you know, I’m a fighter not a talker. But fighters know one thing. Never, ever trust a Zed! I should know, shouldn’t I?”
To emphasise this remark, Azat pointed to the jagged pits and scars that disfigured the whole of the left side of his face. Three years before, he had escaped from a Zed ambush with an axe embedded below his eye. It was a testament to his ox-like strength that the hideous blow had not killed him.
“That fancy woman’s got you like fish on a hook, hasn’t she? Bah! Lies! She’s all lies. She’s got the mark, hasn’t she? That’s all you need to know. Kill her!”
Taja broke the silence that followed this harangue. “As Azat says, the Z-marked woman spoke very well, very convincingly. But maybe she was too convincing?
“As must be clear to you by now, like Azat, I do not trust her. The chase, the dogs…it could all have been set up. We have no proof, just the word of a stranger, a stranger with the mark of our enemies. Are you really going to risk everything for that?”
“Never!” grunted Azat, fingering his scar.
Taja nodded. “There’s something else. Surely we all know the story of the Four?”
A general murmur of assent ran round the room.
The story of the Tallins’ last meeting with Constants from other settlements was semi-legendary. Some twenty-four moons ago, four outsiders, all exhausted and suffering from ghastly wounds, had crawled up to the outer barricade one night and begged to be allowed in. They survived only a few days, but before dying they had told how a traitor Constant had betrayed their remote settlement to the Zeds. It was looted, then burned. The children were slaughtered and women over the age of eleven taken away as breeding slaves. Some of the men were burned alive in the buildings; others – about two dozen – were saved for the Zeds’ most grizzly ritual of triumph.
This involved, the men reported, a great fire with a red-hot metal spit suspended above it. After much wild dancing and chanting, one of the captives was led forward and stripped of his clothes. At this point, while the Zeds were distracted by their hideous rite, the four had made a run for it. They had not seen for certain what the fire and the spit had been for, but they had witnessed enough to imagine.
“You hardly need me to tell you what this tale means,” said Taja. “The Four’s community had been handed over to the Zeds by a traitor. Similarly, the greatest threat to us is not a direct Zed attack but betrayal from within. Can you be absolutely sure this Roxanne is not a spy? If we let her go, won’t she report back on the way we defend ourselves, on our points of weakness? Not all Zeds are stupid, you know.”
“Spy!” interrupted Azat. “Yes, that’s it. Too clever by half. She’s a spy, or my name’s not Azat.”
“Maybe,” replied Taja. “We can’t be certain. But that’s the point. Listen, do you honestly want to risk our whole settlement because some branded woman comes in here and spins a yarn about secrets hidden in a cave in a place we’ve never heard of thousands and thousands of paces away?”
Taja paused. Looking round the room at each person in turn, she concluded slowly, “Think about
it, fellow Mudirs. For all our sakes, think about it.”
“We will. Thank you, Taja,” said Leiss with a frown. The decision did not now seem as straightforward as it had moments before.
The Emir walked slowly to the fireplace and once again raised a hand for silence. “Right. We have heard enough. It’s time for the handshow.”
2: Into the Unknown
Navid closed the door of the Prison Hut and leaned heavily against it. “Well, Cy?”
His friend was drawing idly in the dust with the point of his spear. “Well, what?”
“Come on!” Born on the same day sixteen winters ago and close friends all their lives, the two young men read each other’s thoughts as easily as they read the weather. “You know what I mean, Cy. How d’you think the handshow will go?”
“Most of them are sharp enough to see she’s telling the truth.”
“Taja’s the sharpest of the lot, and she didn’t believe a word Roxanne said.”
Cyrus angrily crossed out the pattern he had drawn. “Maybe.”
Navid’s brain did not match the speed of his powerful warrior’s body. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, Nav. It’s general knowledge how Taja and I have been since Pari died. And once she’s set her mind on something, someone…So, it’s not as simple as whether she believes Roxanne or not. There we were, getting along OK, and then this stranger turns up. Taja sensed a threat almost immediately.” He hesitated, as if trying to make sense of his own thoughts. “You must admit, Nav,” he continued, speaking more slowly, “Roxanne’s quite, well, unusual, isn’t she?”
Navid grinned. “Really?” Typical Cyrus! Too much heart for his own good. At one time or another he had fancied just about every woman in Della Tallis. A merry dance he’d led them till he settled down with Pari, his wedun; and now it looked as if it might start all over again. Except this time, if the refugee was involved, it would be a lot more serious – and a lot more dangerous.